PUBLIC FRANCHISE AND PRIVATE THRALDOM
There was a matter of state and interstate, if not of national
importance afoot, a lively correspondence in its regard flying between
the Lucas and Henderson offices in Chicago, Washington and Beaconhite.
A franchise was in question which must pass, not only the legislatures
of three states, but at last be established or annulled by the passage
of a Congressional Act which would react upon the state legislatures’
decisions on the franchise, making it effective or practically without
value. Energetic and clever lobbying to insure this franchise was
vehemently carrying on in the capitals of the three states concerned,
and at Washington as well. Millions were at stake upon the issue;
immense sums being spent for the passage of the bill; greater sums
waiting those lucky stockholders who should profit by the enterprise
when it was in working order, notably those who “got in on the ground
floor,” who took up as much of the stock as was put out on the market
for sale, at a price beyond which shares would rapidly soar once
the inevitably profitable scheme was proved successful. There would
not be much, or comparatively little of the stock offered upon the
market; the corporation behind the enterprise was made up of solid
men who could afford to wait for their future big percentage, secure
to them if the thing went through. They did not purpose to let the
general public share the chippings from the shell of their golden
egg, except in numbers enough to forestall enmity to it on the ground
of its being a private profit, maintained through public tolerance,
via the Congress and legislatures. Correspondence in regard to this
important matter passed in great bulk through Cicely’s hands; she was
interested in it to the highest point. The newspapers were full of
allusions to the franchise, opposing it, supporting it, according to
their bias for or against the political party favoring the measure. It
amazed inexperienced Cis to find that this was the basis of newspaper
influence, never the abstract benefit or harm to the public at large,
which seemed to her mind the only ground upon which to favor or oppose
the franchise.
Rodney laughed at her, and called her “Donna Quixote,” a name that
Cicely liked because it was linked with tender mockery in Rodney’s
eyes; she had never read “Don Quixote.”
The correspondence in regard to the franchise which assailed Cicely’s
desk in Mr. Wilmer Lucas’ office was couched in the code that had at
first been such a stumbling block to her, but which she now read and
wrote with complete fluency. It was excitingly pleasant to get inside
information upon a subject that was occupying so much public attention.
“I feel as biggity as Brer Rabbit to be so deep in the know!” she
told Rodney. Therefore on the Monday morning after her Sunday spent
at Pioneer Falls, Cicely started out for Lucas and Henderson’s office
with her mind joyously attuned to anticipation, the anticipation of an
interesting day superimposed upon the delicious certainty that Rodney
loved her as well as she loved him, better perhaps, and that it was a
matter of a few hours before she could be his promised wife.
Perhaps she should have been that now, had they not met Father Morley
the previous evening. The priest had intruded upon the perfect oneness
of her comradeship with Rodney; he irritated Rod, and, though Father
Morley impressed her as a saint, and attracted Cis herself powerfully,
yet Rod said that priests “were good things to keep away from,” and
if he felt so, then one could not expect him to find Father Morley’s
inopportune intrusion upon them agreeable.
But how beautiful had been Rodney’s manner to her, Cis thought, as, in
the knowing little hotel to which he had taken her, he had ordered and
pressed upon her delicious food for which she had slight appetite, yet
of which she ate, coaxed into eating by the wondrous delicacies and
Rodney’s ministrations to her.
They had not talked upon disturbing subjects, pleasant or the reverse,
but had chatted happily, in complete harmony, laughing over their
own nonsense, telling each other new bits of confidences, those
insignificant-significant trifles of past experience which, taken
together, make up a mosaic of complete mutual knowledge. There was
nothing for Cis to tell except school scrapes and triumphs, funny or
piteous things which she had encountered on her short road so far
through life; stories of people whom she had known, pleasures and
annoyances; her reactions toward them. They were simple tales to which
Rodney harkened with profound interest, deriving from them an accurate
estimate of this clean-minded, gallant Cis who loved him, as he saw;
whom he meant to marry, and not Gertrude Davenport with her money,
realizing that in Cis he had found the woman whose existence his
experience had led him to doubt.
In return for her confidences Rodney told Cis similar stories of his
boyhood, of his merry college days, of victories which he had won on
the fields of sport, and, later, in the field of business competition.
That there was much that Rodney did not tell her, honest Cis never
suspected, still less that there was a side of his life, parallel with
his advancement in business, upon which he did not touch. She listened
breathlessly to Rodney’s charming recitals, treasuring up his every
word, so that it surprised him later to find how conversant she was
with his boyhood and youth; proudly recognizing him as the cleverest
and the best of lads whose present perfection had been clearly
foreshown, missing nothing, because she looked for nothing beyond his
revelations.
The remembrance of these intimate confidences of the evening before,
lay warm at her heart; the picture of the close-drawn crimson sash
curtains in the leaded window beside them; the cream-white table, with
its heavy cut work doilies; its delightful copper candlesticks, their
parchment shades decorated by a skilled hand in Persian colors and
designs, made a poetic background for her memories. Cis went out on
Monday morning, whistling in her mind, her breath keeping up the air
soundlessly against her motionless lips--Cis, the secretary, no longer
whistled in the street as Cis, the telephone operator, would have
done--and she almost ran into Miss Hannah Gallatin.
“Good morning!” they cried together, as Cis swerved to avoid a
collision.
“I sort of hoped I’d meet you, Miss Adair; I had an idea you went out
about this time,” Miss Gallatin said, and added: “Mind if I walk along
to talk to you?”
“Glad to have you, Miss Gallatin,” Cis replied truthfully. “I’ve
thought of you lots of times, and of how kind you were that morning
when you asked me home with you, and advised me about boarding at Mrs.
Wallace’s.”
“But haven’t felt the need of a friend yet, so haven’t hunted me up, as
I told you to in case you ever did need one?” Miss Gallatin commented.
“I’ve been busy, learning all sorts of new things in the office----”
“And out of it,” Miss Gallatin interrupted Cis. “See here, my dear
girl, let me ask you bluntly: Are you engaged to my boarder, Mr. Moore?”
“No, Miss Gallatin, but I am really engaged without being! It is
exactly the same thing, and I’d have been engaged when you asked
me, if you hadn’t asked me to-day!” Cis laughed, but Miss Gallatin
shook her head violently, having been shaking it gently as a running
accompaniment and comment from the first syllable of Cicely’s answer.
“Girl alive, it’s not in the least the same thing!” cried the gaunt
woman energetically. “Making love to a girl, and tying up to her under
bonds are by no means the same! Men flirt and flit; woo and walk,
and the girls think that there’s so much honor back of warm looks
that they’re as secure behind a bow as a vow. Now, my honest Cicely
Adair--for I know you’re as straight a girl as walks--these words may
sound alike, but their sounds and sense are quite different. I’m going
to tell you something about G. Rodney Moore; he was running hard after
Gertrude Davenport a while ago; she’s a rich beauty, and now he’s
dangling after you. Honorable?”
Cis laughed long and merrily; it is not unpleasant to have victory
over another girl attributed to oneself, however humble-minded and
gentle-hearted the conqueror may be. Cis began to sing the once popular
song:
“‘But I never knew, dear,
That I should meet you, dear;
So let’s forget the girls I met
Before I met you!’”
“H’m!” grunted Miss Gallatin. “That’s no answer, though it’s been
given as one ever since Noë’s grandson went gallivanting! Miss Adair,
you’re a good girl not to slap me and bid me go about my own affairs,
but I suppose you know that I want to befriend you. I know that you go
off seeing the country with my captivating lodger, and it worries me. I
don’t trust that fellow; I never have. Now you _will_ slap me! You’ll
put up with my meddling, but not with my misjudging your hero; is that
so?”
“Well, I don’t like it,” said Cis, “but I’m sure you mean it kindly,
and can’t help seeing Rod crooked. In reality he’s splendid, true as
steel, kind--_splendid_, that’s all!”
“He tells me that he shall not stay with me all winter, that he is
looking about for an apartment, a small one. Know anything about that?”
Miss Gallatin demanded.
“Oh, the absurd fellow!” cried Cis, blushing furiously to the roots of
her brilliant red hair. “This winter! Mercy! No, Miss Gallatin, I don’t
know anything about it, but I suppose--This winter! Just imagine!”
“I do hope there’s a deaf and dumb saint who intercedes for girls
in love!” cried Miss Hannah Gallatin impatiently. “It would be the
only one who could thoroughly understand her! Evidently you think the
apartment means that G. Rodney expects to cage his bird, but I think
that’s by no means certain. You blind, honest little bat, it might mean
anything else but that! Cicely Adair, I found out lately, accidentally
dropping a book out of which a card tumbled--one of G. Rodney’s
books--that he was once a Catholic!”
“Yes, he was,” Cis said carelessly. “I knew that. He doesn’t believe in
any form of religion; he thinks it’s all nonsense, but I’ll learn to be
a good Catholic myself, and then Rod will get straightened out.”
“Cicely Adair, look out for the man that is not true to his faith;
disloyalty to his God is a mighty poor argument for his loyalty to
a woman. And do your converting before, not after you marry him!
Something there I don’t like; never have. I’m afraid for you, Cicely
Adair. I wish I had proof--or else no doubts!” Miss Gallatin looked
troubled.
Across the space of several months Jeanette Lucas’ voice reached Cis as
Miss Gallatin spoke; it said again to her:
“I thought that I should cure his one defect, his indifference to
religion. I know now that he was false to all things, to me as to God!
Cicely Adair, you’re a Catholic girl; remember this lesson when you
think of marrying.”
Cicely shivered involuntarily, and the chill of the memory of this
warning from the girl whom she had revered, then pitied, drove out the
quick anger with which she had heard Miss Gallatin’s last words, and
made her answer quietly:
“I think you mean to be good to me, Miss Gallatin, and I appreciate
it, but, please, nothing more against Rodney Moore to me. I ought
not to have let you say one word! He loves me, as I love him, and he
trusts me as I trust him. I don’t know what he will say when I tell
him that someone warned me against him and that I let them--of course
I must confess it to him! I shall marry him. There isn’t anything else
to do when the whole world would be black-empty without him! Even if
I’m to be unhappy, still I must marry him. But I’m not afraid of being
unhappy. How silly, how wrong, but still more how silly, to suspect
people without a grain of reason! You haven’t the least proof of Rod’s
being anything but what I’ve found him, the best, as he is the dearest,
cleverest, kindest, biggest, truest man in all the whole wide world!”
“Forgive my meddling, Miss Adair,” said Miss Gallatin humbly. “No
one ever rescued a girl in love from her fate, even though she
brought tons of proof against the man. And I have none; you’re right.
Nevertheless--But I’m to say no more! I like you, my dear; I truly
like you, and I’ve known what it was to love a man madly, trust him
utterly, and find him false and evil! If G. Rodney leaves my house for
that apartment and you’re not domiciled in it, will you come to board
with me? I’d like to have you under my roof. And the day may come when
you’ll find queer, lean, ugly Hannah Gallatin better than no one. Like
Mrs. Wallace’s?”
“Oh, yes; it’s all right,” said Cis, glad to be let off from answering
the previous questions. “It’s clean, and she gives us lots of good
food, but--Mrs. Wallace’s women boarders are not all my fancy might
paint them!”
“Fancy sketches ’twould be!” returned Miss Gallatin. “Women boarders
are a species by themselves; idle, censorious, meddlesome. Hers aren’t
peculiar to Mrs. Wallace; she’s not to blame for ’em; mine are just the
same! They’re all alike, mostly, and when they’re different from the
rest, heaven help the different ones! The things I’ve seen women, who
were supposed to be ladies when they were away from a boarding house
table, do to get the hearts of the celery--gracious! I’m sure those at
Mrs. Wallace’s pick at you; you’re too gay and independent to escape!
Too young, besides! Well, that would be the same anywhere, but come to
me if ever there’s a chance. You can’t come while G. Rodney’s in the
house; I won’t have you! Now, good-bye, my dear! I do like you, and,
somehow, the thought of you anxiously haunts me. Believe me, if you are
happy with G. Rodney and can bring him back to his faith, if he’ll be
to you what you expect him to be, no one will be more glad than queer
Hannah Gallatin! So don’t hold a grudge in your memory of me, and come
to see me some Sunday--if you have spare time!”
Cis heartily shook the worn hand which this peculiar, but sterling
woman held out to her. She resented her suspicions of Rodney, yet in
spite of them, she liked her cordially, and left her with a surprising
warmth for her in her own heart, and a pity that recognized the tragedy
which Miss Gallatin’s brief allusion to her own perfidious lover
revealed.
Cis walked on thoughtfully for a short distance after leaving Miss
Gallatin, her thoughts grave, almost somber. It was gloomy to know
that once this woman had been young like her, full to overflowing with
the joy which now filled Cicely, joy which had congealed under the
cruellest ice, the cold of disappointment and disillusionment. But the
perfidy of that older lover did not involve the perfidy of Rodney.
Rodney! The word “perfidy” was an absurdity in connection with his
name! Cis threw off her depression, squared her shoulders like a boy,
and broke into a swinging pace, softly whistling: “But I never knew,
dear,” the song which she had hummed replying to Miss Gallatin. This
time, casting aside her dignity as Mr. Lucas’ private secretary, Cis
whistled aloud in the street, albeit softly.
There were piles of letters waiting upon her desk when Cis sat down to
it, letters in ordinary long-hand and typed letters, but the majority
of them written in the code peculiar to that office and to the secrets
of its clients and associates.
Cis plunged into them, reading and assorting into piles letters
relating to legal affairs, cases in which Lucas and Henderson, as a
firm, were retained; letters relating to Mr. Lucas’ personal clients,
people who retained him as advisor in their affairs, rather as a wise
man of sterling integrity than as a lawyer; letters of appeal, or
asking information; last of all, letters in the code relating to the
matter of the pending franchise; reporting its progress in the three
states dealing with it, and with Congress; the likelihood of the bill
passing which would make it possible; suggestions of means which would
further its success. The mail relating to the franchise, as well as his
personal correspondence, Cis laid upon Mr. Lucas’ desk; he would not
come in before eleven, or possibly noon that day, having first gone to
the bank to conduct that part of its business which fell upon him as
its president.
Then Cis plunged into correspondence from yesterday’s notes, which she
must write up and dispatch. She was immersed in this when Mr. Lucas
entered.
“Good morning, Miss Adair,” he said and passed her to take up the
papers which she had laid down, awaiting him.
He read rapidly, putting aside a few letters for a second reading, but
he merely glanced through the letters which were not written in the
code, stacking them for a return to them later on; evidently the one
absorbing, pressing matter of that day was the franchise, soon to be
decided.
“Miss Adair, you know a great deal that the outside world is eager
to learn,” said Mr. Lucas, looking over at Cis as she busily wrote
at her desk, a short distance from his own. “There are many people’s
hopes hanging upon this pending franchise; many waiting to snatch up
the shares of the new enterprise, to get them at the lowest possible
figure. What would they not give to know now that the franchise is
secured? They could buy to-day at 32¼, and sell within two months at
fifty per cent above par! A profit not to be despised! And within a
year that profit will at least double. The newspapers are agog for
inside information, for a tip as to the probabilities of the outcome,
partly to secure a scoop over other papers, partly to serve political
ends. What do you purpose doing with your knowledge, Miss Adair? Sell
out to the highest bidder? Offer your knowledge, say, to a New York
paper, and make it do something handsome for you, in return for the
advantage you offer it?”
Mr. Lucas spoke with a smile that showed that he considered Cicely far
beyond the reach of temptation thus to betray confidence. His face
also expressed great satisfaction, even relief. As the president of
a national bank, it might prove unpleasant for him if the failure of
the franchise disclosed him deeply concerned in its success. Mr. Lucas
was playing with Cis and the fancy of her betraying him, under the
necessity for some outlet for the satisfaction which his face revealed.
Cis looked up and smiled.
“No; I won’t sell you up, Mr. Lucas,” she said. “Is it settled then? Is
the Big Deal on? Is the franchise secured?”
“I thought you read the letters, Miss Adair. You aren’t forgetting the
code, are you?” Mr. Lucas looked half-annoyed, half-amused. “I want you
to go over the mail carefully, and I surely want you to read the code
straight.”
“I did read the letters, Mr. Lucas, and I understood that they were
favorable, but--to tell the truth, I understood what I read enough
to do the right thing with them, but the letters did not make much
impression on me; I had something important on my mind,” candid Cis
explained.
Mr. Lucas laughed outright. “A girl is a girl, clever or stupid,
faithful or unreliable! I’d wager I could shrewdly guess the important
subject. Important, mark you! The franchise being a mere bagatelle!
Well, well, Miss Adair, I’ve no doubt that you did precisely as you say
you did, read and understood, and forgot for really ‘important matters’
when you had read! The franchise is assured, Miss Adair, and great
events are afoot! I am as delighted as I have been anxious about it.
We shall all profit, but it is my honest conviction that the profit to
the public will exceed the money returns. Be careful not to know all
this, if you please; the information must not leak out yet, not for two
months more,” Mr. Lucas warned Cis.
“I’ll keep quiet, Mr. Lucas. I’ve been approached by a few Poll Prys,
but--nothing doing!” Cis laughed gaily, permitting herself a relapse
into the slang which her new dignity had been making her eschew.
That evening Rodney met Cis just beyond the door of the building which
housed the Lucas and Henderson offices, when she came forth at nearly
five o’clock.
The sight of him, handsome, faultlessly dressed, debonair, smiling
happily as they came toward each other, set Cicely’s pulses bounding
joyously; his presence was the sufficient answer to the doubt of him
suggested by Miss Gallatin, repudiated by Cis, yet, like all doubts,
hard to silence completely, even when downed.
“Oh, Rod, I’m glad!” cried Cis almost running over the short distance
intervening between them.
“Oh, Cis, I’m gladder!” echoed Rodney. “What’s amiss, Cis? Amiss-Cis;
goes along slick, but Cis is never amiss!”
“I want to confess to you, Rory,” said Cis, as Rodney turned to walk
with her.
“The only one I want you ever so much as to think of confessing to,”
Rodney said approvingly.
“Someone warned me that it wasn’t safe to play with you, Rory O’Moore,
that I’d be sorry later on, that you weren’t quite, quite all right,
trustworthy, you know. I didn’t really listen; I did not believe, and
I said that sort of talk had to stop, but it was said, Rod, and I’m
ashamed of myself that I let more than your name get past. I didn’t
listen, I didn’t truly, but too much was said.” Cis poured out her
confession eagerly.
“Who was it? Who was she? Safe to say _she_, of course! What else did
she tell you? Anything I ought to know--and that you ought not to
know?” Rodney looked furiously angry, and somewhat alarmed.
“Don’t ask me who it was; I won’t tell. I won’t say it was a woman; may
have been a man. And nothing was said, more than I’ve told you; that
the person doubted your being safe for me to play with,” cried Cis.
“I’m sorry I heard more than one word.”
“The old gal, I’ll bet! Funny old Gallatin; she always suspects me,”
cried Rodney. “Why, Cis; why, Holly, my darling, there’s no one on
earth half as safe as I for you to play with! How dares she think I’d
harm you, grieve you? Never any other man loved a girl as I love you.
I’m mad about you, Cis, you--you glowing Holly-berry! I never dreamed
there was such a girl on earth. When we’re married--My heavens, _when
we’re married_! Cis, oh, Cis, you can’t dream how happy we’re to be!
Did she think maybe we wouldn’t marry? Cis, we shall, we must! You’re
going to marry me, aren’t you, my darling, my glowing ruby-jewel?”
Cis looked up, trembling, forgetful of fear, of doubt, responding to
the call of this love that blotted out the world with as much ardor as
its summons held. “Yes, oh, yes! I’d die else,” she said.
Rodney drew her to him oblivious to the highway and its many
passers-by, but Cis came to her senses, and eluded his arms.
“Oh, Rod, Rory dear, we’re engaged!” she almost sobbed. “We are really,
truly engaged, and isn’t it beautiful! Do people get engaged like this,
without meaning to, just sort of talking, and then there you are? And
it’s so public, and so queer! But, oh, Rory O’Moore, it’s so beautiful!
What can it mean, it’s so beautiful?”
“It means that by your birthday, by Christmas, my Holly-berry, you’ll
be in your own home, in _my_ home, my wife, and that no cold nor storms
shall ever touch my Christmas bride! Oh, Holly, Holly of my heart, red
and glowing, thorns for all else, but for me the crimson fruit of your
love!” cried Rodney, stammering under an emotion which unconsciously
turned back to the phrases of his Celtic forbears for its expression.